And a couple of poems about the subject of justice.
It seems to me that a lot of poems that I write,
have been writing, I try to do justice
to people who haven't been done justice to.
I think that's probably one big motive
for a lot of people who write.
I'd certainly say someone like Melville, who writes--
most of his work is compensatory that way, it seems to me.
This poem is called Charity.
I guess this poem is really about the fact
that the law of compensation, which
says that, for every grief, there is a compensating joy.
It's not true.
Charity.
Time to believe that the thin disguise
on the face of the blessing in disguise
will never be pulled off, that the truth that's
still in hiding will stay there, far in the dark.
All that can be revealed is revealed.
All that can be learned from the burning house
was learned the first time, when the smoke blackened
the walls in every room.
So much for more experience.
What can grow has grown.
What's small now stays small.
No portion waits for those who deserve more.
The flowers in the yard of the blind and deaf girl
will never smell any sweeter to her
than they smell now to any of her visitors.
The music she imagines will never compare to ours.
Her best day will brighten with no joy that
hasn't brightened our day more.
Time to admit that her steady cheer
is the burden she assumes to keep us here,
touching her fingers for a while.